Baggage
by NarikoStormhold
Summary: The left-overs of a once-great relationship, a young couple deals with the baggage of a year together, and the time shared. It's a light M, but I figured I'd rate it that way for safety.
1. Chapter 1

Many thanks to Zack, my Writing Assistant

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She steps out of the car, and he surveys her with an artists' eye. She's lines and angles, here and there a broad sweep of arc, a few graceful curves linking all these together. The movement of her hair across her forehead is captivating, the way her fingers arch loosely fascinating. Walking towards him, the swing of her hips and the twisting motion of her abdomen hypnotize him, and he can't tear his eyes away from her.

They study each other; he watching every detail of her movements, she attempting to interpret the expression on his face. More than anything in the world, he would like to grasp her by that seductive line of her neck, throw her on the table behind him, press himself against her and take her. He's dying to feel her warmth against his body, but he stays at a respectful distance. If for no other reason than to cut off the urges that he's not sure he can resist much longer.

She's angry, though. He can feel it radiating from her, even in the arch of her back. It's subtle, something only a former lover can truly understand, but he's always been able to read her. He meets her eyes finally, sees the rage in her eyes and senses that the storm is about to break.

"The _fuck_ did you think you were doing?" she asks, her eyes narrowing, her voice still low, but hard like granite. Like her body, he thinks, with a flash of remembrance of her flat abdomen stretched across his, firm like marble but innately sensual. He wakens to his own anger suddenly, as if memory of what he's lost has spurred him into rage at the one who took it away.

"I thought I could save you," he says spitefully, tearing his gaze away and avoiding her gaze. "Didn't need saving, did you? My mistake, Your Highness," he spits. The force of their rage meets in the center of the room, clashing so powerfully as to almost be audible.

Yet instantly, he remembers the sweet, subtle scent of her. Jasmine and sandalwood, and lying next to her in moments after their closest intimacy, when his arms would encircle her and his fingers would intimately entwine in her thick hair, he could sense a delicate hint of sweat. He would bury his face into her neck, her hair tousled and languorous and smelling of the shampoo that he rubs into her thick hair every morning.

He loved nothing more than watching her undress and prepare for her shower. He'd sit on her counter, shirt off and wearing nothing more than boxers, and she'd slip slowly out of her shirt. The careless flick of her wrist, and the shirt would drop away from her. He'd smile, sliding off the counter and pulling away the drawstrings of her pants, the texture of the strings grinding together under his fingers. He would study the curve of her abdomen, his fingers just brushing a ripple of her muscle. The pants would fall from her hips, and he'd take her in his arms, his bare chest contacting hers. Smiling, he'd pull away and unhook the bra and they'd both shed the last of their garments. He'd rotate her so her back would face him, and walk her slowly to the shower. They'd stand just like that, his arms wrapped around her shoulders, letting the hot water beat down onto their heads. Eventually he'd turn her again, and she'd lay her half-asleep head against his shoulder, allowing him to wash her hair. He enjoyed it – the slow cleansing, the feel of her hair between his fingers. She'd wake up gradually to his touch, and they'd kiss gently again.

Every day had been an adventure, but they'd fit each other like old lovers. They'd stayed together for almost a year; a year full of intense emotion and passionate love. He had learned her intimately, something that had interested him to no end. He'd discovered her carefully – he had learned to gage her reactions, and each movement that he would make was purposefully chosen to please her. In return, she'd learned him just as intimately. Her fingers knew his body just as well as her eyes knew his face, and she'd taught herself a thousand ways to make his skin crawl with desire. Every night they'd fallen asleep in each others arms, her head resting on his chest and his arm curled possessively around her neck.

He's pulled back to the present time by the veiled anguish on her face. Again, he knows that no one except him would have seen it, but the subtle line above her left eye and the slight downturn of her lip gives it away instantly. Angry, yes. But also deeply saddened. He wants her back now, more than ever before. They know each other too well, have learned each idiosyncrasy and quirk. The last thing he wants is to throw all that away now.

"Love," he whispers, using the sweet name that he knows she was fond of, "hear me out." He watches the line of her back release slightly as she half turns away from him. His eyes travel the curve of her hip, and can't help but allow a tiny smile to curl the corner of his lips. He draws himself back, meets her eyes for a moment before she glances away.

"Love, you and I have more and better than most couples ever will. I _know_ you, better than I even know myself. And I _want_ you, more than I've ever wanted any woman before." He hears his voice go smoky, heavy with desire for her. "You and I have been together too long to be separate. I have no desire to find another woman, one that will never satisfy me and fascinate me the way you do."

"Do you remember the first time we met, when our eyes sparked across the room and we felt that instant connection?" One step closer, his voice growing harder and a little more intense. One step closer.

"Do you remember the first time we kissed, when you felt something inside you turn and catch and our first kiss became the most passionate and intense thing that you'd felt up to that point?" One step closer, one step. His voice hardening.

"Do you remember the first time we fell into bed, and you whispered my name with each breath, and it was so amazing that the world stopped turning for an instant as we lay there?" One step closer, he's almost yelling at her. He's leaning forward aggressively, wanting to take her and shake her and beg her to see what he's saying.

"Do you remember the first time I said I loved you, and your eyes filled up with the passion that I've found to be the most amazing drug?" One step closer, only one left. Only one more chance to drive his point home. His voice is softening as he speaks of love.

"Do you remember every time you've fallen asleep with your head on my chest and your legs still tangled with mine, my name still on your lips, and my fingers still curled in your hair?" His last step brings him so close that he can feel her breath, ragged and harsh, against his neck. Their eyes lock, his full of the intensity of his emotion, hers still tight from pain.

"Darling, I love you," he whispers. His breath flutters the soft hair at her temples. He senses the cold melting around her, and she reaches for him at the instant that he gives in to those intense desires. She falls into his arms, her body melting against his and her lips devouring him. For all his talk of remembering, he'd honestly forgotten the feel of her, the hard tangibility of her body against his.

Moments later, with her bare leg bent by his waist and her back pressed flat against the kitchen floor, he concentrates on the skin by the meeting of her neck and her shoulder. Here, he searches for a certain spot, knowing her and knowing that she hadn't changed since he had last touched her so. He finds it, and she gasps softly from between half-parted lips.

"Yes," she hisses into his ear, holding onto the word like a lifeline. She arches underneath him and pressures his head further against her neck. His hunger for her begins to press him further, devouring her skin while her breathing increases steadily. Her fingers tighten spasmodically in his curly hair – the pressure on his scalp ripples the skin down his back. He feels the tightness in his lower abdomen, and he knows that her skin is tingling as well. Each contact is electric.

His hand grips the back of her thigh, he presses towards her . . . her lips at his ear, his face buried in the thick hair by the crevice of her neck, he feels her hard breathing against his curls . . . her heel digs into the small of his back, and her thighs tighten on him . . . he grasps the back of her neck, drawing her closer into him, and is rewarded by a sharp intake of breath underneath him . . . her fingers dragging at the skin across his back, and he can feel every inch of her acutely . . . from her heels, dug into his back . . . her abdomen, arched to meet his . . . her lips, half parted and breathing rapidly by his ear . . .

They've always been very quiet lovers. Not for lack of passion, or for pleasure, as both have learned to please the other in such perfect ways that previous experiences have become just shades of memory. Naturally, though, their climax was no louder than a murmur of the others' name. The way she whispered his name, soft and seductive and holding on to _every single syllable_, her voice husky and breathy and still tense, was enough in itself to make him adore her. His own expression was simply the tightening of his arm against her head, and he felt some sort of comfort radiate from her as his bicep would flex, his flushed cheek pressed against hers, burrowing silently into her neck and inhaling her scent deeply.


	2. Chapter 2

On the bed, a cascade of black hair rippling through his fingers, he feels a wild sense of possession. He lays on his back, her head resting heavily in the hollow of his shoulder. Her leg is thrown casually across one of his, twining between them and laying the flat of her foot against his the inside of his calf. Even in sleep, her warm arms stretched across his chest and her fingers curled loosely against his ribs, she absolutely fascinates him. He glances down her smooth body, examining the perfect curve of her hip. He's tempted to run his fingers across her back, feel the ripples of her skin where muscle and bone met to heady effect. He traces the scar next to her right shoulder blade, a long, thin line of raised skin, not needing to find it by sight.

He remembered when she'd gotten it, that fine line near her shoulder blade. It'd been something of a freak accident, but it had scared the hell out of him at the time. He'd walked to the bank, leaving her to follow him after completing whatever piece of shopping they'd begun. He'd walked back out of the bank after completing his transaction and turned to glance towards her as she walked towards him. He remembers so vividly the way she'd glanced behind her shoulder, the yellow sun dress fluttering around her as she threw a laugh to the shop keeper behind her, her dark hair contrasting so sharply against her fair skin and the pale dress. She'd avoided the construction zone warnings, skipping a foot into the street to step around the sawhorses and bouncing back up the curb carelessly. But suddenly, he'd felt as if something was wrong. At that same instant, as he'd sprung towards her, he'd heard a single sharp cry from her, and she'd collapsed to the ground. As he grasped her shoulders and hauled her into his arms, he'd felt a heat against his sleeve and realized that his arm was wet with her blood. He'd gasped and turned her, still conscious but pliable in his hands, the coppery smell of her blood tightening his diaphragm. He'd seen a long, feather-thin line down her back, oozing thick blood, her back muscles steeled against the pain; lifting her up, he'd physically carried her to the nearby hospital. Fifteen stitches and almost a full year later, the scar was no longer obvious, but still easy for him to find.

The scar . . . the freak accident had been the first time he'd told her that he loved her. He'd carried her back to her apartment, laid her on her side on the bed and lain next to her, their lips inches apart, his eyes smiling into hers. They'd spoken in soft whispers, although she'd only been half-conscious from pain medicines, and slowly inched closer until they'd assumed what would become their customary sleeping position. Just before she'd fallen asleep, he'd whispered those fateful words for the first time: "I love you." She'd smiled, beyond response other than to nestle closer to him, and her eyes had closed for the moment.

About a year later, she'd been standing against the door frame to their little living room when he'd gotten home one day. On any other day he would have smiled and taken her into his arms, his pulse already quickening for her. But he'd sensed something wrong, something in the way her arms were held beside her, the way the arch of her back was slightly more pronounced. He'd wandered towards her, leaning for the kiss but being rejected by a slight turn of her head. She'd sat him down and paced silently through the room, and he remembered glancing at the scar next to her shoulder blade, peeking over the back of her tight tank top, two or three shades lighter than her natural skin color. He longed to reach out and touch it, brush the hardened skin with the tips of his fingers.

She'd not spoken for several minutes, simply paced the room like a frustrated beast. Her skirt had swished around her knees, her feet making no sound against the hardwood floors. She'd spoken finally, soft as her voice always was, and told him in as few words as possible that she was leaving him. He'd asked, he'd pleaded to know why, but she'd been unable to tell him. He could see her hands shaking so slightly, her skin paler than normal; the way she'd touch her lips with her fingers, he could tell she was nervous. She hadn't cried, but he'd never seen more than a single tear from her at a time, so he hadn't expected it. He hadn't expected the slow tearing of his heart either. As her feet crossed the threshold, as the door closed softly behind her, as the complete lack of her sunk deeply into the air around him, he'd felt a little part of him whither.

He drags himself back to the present, his fingers tightening momentarily on her hair. She's waking slowly, shifting against his shoulder and mumbling throatily in the way he'd grown accustomed. He smiles and stretches, dragging his left bicep from under the sheets and pulling it above his head, feeling the slow strain against his muscle. She props herself up on her elbow after a moment, a curtain of dark hair falling around her face, leaning in to kiss him. As she pulls away, he smiles contently at her, watching the line of her backbone as she straightens into a sitting position. He can't think of any curve more beautiful than the single one that he's looking at now.

She steps out of the bed, and he can't help but marvel at the way each of her movements is the most graceful thing he's every seen. The line of her left leg crosses her right, and her back arches to accommodate. She walks away from him, her bare hips swaying just a little more than normal. He throws an arm out in her direction, laughing when he misses her entirely and rolls half off the bed. His arm dangles to the floor, the tips of his knuckles brushing the thick carpet. She enters the bathroom and closes the door behind her, and he rolls back over, lying on his back with one hand splayed on his chest. As the water turns on in the bathroom, he smiles to himself and climbs out of bed, reaching for the bathroom door to join her in their old showering ritual.

The door is locked. He taps the handle for a second, jiggling it as if it was simply a problem with the knob instead of a problem with the person within the door. He stands with his forehead against the door for a few seconds, listening to the comforting sound of the water and wishing deeply that he could be with her. He wonders what would provoke her like this, or if the last evening's love was simply a temporary fix.

He turns his back to the door, sliding down with the wood chafing against his bare back. He settles himself into the floor, slowly laying his head against the wood again and letting out a deep sigh. Deep down, he thinks he probably knew that the separation was coming. In some respect, even as he'd held her and kissed her and felt her smooth skin against his, he'd known that she'd not fully forgiven him, that she would hold it between the two of them for a long time to come.

He can hear her through the door – she'd always loved singing in the shower. She never sang loudly, as she was too shy even to let him hear much of her singing voice. But if she was in the shower alone, he'd listen raptly to the soft melodies that she would whisper. He always recognized the songs, sitting close by the door, little snatches of jazz and pop and rock, each of them mellowed down and make more lovely by her very voice.

Clearly, like it was yesterday, he remembers the first night she'd spent in his little apartment. When they'd woken up, the morning as bright and sunny as any spring day they'd seen, she'd slipped into the shower before he could come with her, still not quite ready to be seen in what he considered her full glory, even the morning after. He'd smiled and, after slipping into a pair of plaid pants and forgoing a shirt entirely, had leaned against the wall by the bathroom for just a moment. "Flying High," he'd recognized it. He'd heard her sing then, and the words stick out to him even now:

"You can't know, oh no, you can't know how much I think about you, no,

It's making my head spin.

Looking at you, and you are looking at me and we both know what we want,

hmmm, so close to giving in."

Listening to her sing softly, he recognizes the same song. He smiles as she hums the last few bars at the end of the first verse, but the words hit him with a different message. "Feel so nice, oh yeah you feel so nice, wish I could spend the night, but I can't pay the price, oh no, no." He senses then, the quality of her voice that he's heard so rarely that he almost doesn't know the sound of it. She's not crying, no, but she's sad, so sad. He can hear the smokiness, the husky sound that transforms her voice into something deeper. The water turns off and he freezes for a second in indecision.

Sliding back onto the bed, he turns his back to the door, curls his arm under his head, and pretends to sleep. Yet his ears are tuned towards every sound she makes; the sounds he's grown accustomed to. A swish as she pulls the towel down, wrapping it around herself gracefully. It occurs to him that he'd never been able to wrap a towel around himself as neatly as she could. He hears the sound of her pulling on jeans, a tiny _snick-snick_ as she latches her bra, then finally the doorknob unlocking. She walks out quietly, her footsteps uncertain as she tries to guess whether he's asleep or not.

Her bare feet step to the foot of his bed, and they both know that he's awake. He rolls over, sitting up slowly, still pretending to be half-asleep. Groggy-eyed, he turns to smile at her. Something is devastatingly wrong, he can sense it immediately. Her eyes are red, and her fingers are clenched by her lips. He reaches for her, feels the ache as she pulls away, shaking her head twice. Desperation slowly grasps his heart, and his hand stretches further towards her as he pulls himself up from the bed.

She's always been strong, so strong, his rock in all the times he'd needed support. And even now, as he stares at the tear glistening down her cheek, his desire to kiss it off her skin burning against his lips, knowing he'll never, ever get that privilege again, she's strong against him. She's never been strong against him, never felt the need to resist him. She'd been strong _for_ him, standing behind him with her arms clasped around his waist and her lips whispering sweet encouragement in his ear, and he'd known without a doubt that she was his. Now, the tear lying unkissed on her blushed cheeks, he senses a ripping within himself, or maybe more accurately in the space between the two of them. There, the soft sound of her sigh, and it's over.

"I can't anymore," she whispers.

"No," he replies, his voice shaking and his eyes widened to a point of terror.

"It's no good," the tear still not followed by even one more, but her voice cracking brutally. "I want to, but I can't stay."

"Love," he calls, watching her walk out the door. "Love," he whispers, and a single, longing glance from over her shoulder is the only response he gets.


End file.
